Page 20 of Hold Your Breath

She resisted the urge to mention that, as the resident iceman, Callum did not count. Instead, she just reminded him, “Research?”

“Sure you can tear yourself away from Walsh?”

“Quit being pissy, and let’s identify a dead man.”

“I’m not being pissy.” He still sounded pissy.

“Fine. Research?”

“Fine.”

* * *

“‘Research’ isn’t some new euphemism for getting laid, is it?” Lou asked, looking around at the sparse scattering of patrons at the Simpson Bar.

Callum made a sound that could have been a swallowed laugh. It was hard to hear it over the country music blaring from the overhead speakers. He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he headed to the bar.

Lou followed him and slipped onto the bar stool he had politely pulled out for her. She turned to give a social smile to the thin woman occupying the next stool and then blinked in surprise. The woman was none other than Coroner Belly.

“Oh! Hi!” Even as the words left her mouth, Lou winced inwardly. There was way too much enthusiasm there. “Sorry,” Lou added quickly. “I just didn’t recognize you at first. I’m Lou, one of the dive-team members? We met yesterday at the…uh, reservoir.”

Belly’s chilly expression thawed considerably. “Right! The cute little blond diver who kicked the corpse. I remember you now.”

“Oh, um. Right.” Her voice lost a lot of its enthusiasm at the reminder. “Is that how people are going to identify me now? As the person who kicked a dead guy?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Belly took a long drink of her beer. “I said you were cute, too, didn’t I?”

“Sorry?”

“Hey, Bel,” Callum said. “They figure out who that guy is yet?”

After another drink from her bottle, Belly answered, “Nope, poor bastard.”

“Huh.” The bartender approached, and Cal held up three fingers and pointed at Belly’s beer. “Poor bastard is right.”

“And his poor family,” Lou added. “Probably thinking he walked out on them when he was actually murdered. So sad.”

The bartender set three beers in front of them. Lou reached for her purse, but Callum was quicker, pulling out some bills and handing them to the server with a nod of thanks.

“Thank you. I’ll get the next round,” Lou said. Callum made a sound that could’ve been agreement but most likely wasn’t.

“Thanks, Cal,” Belly said as she finished off the remains of her beer and reached for the next one, almost in the same motion.

“Something’s bothering me,” Lou said slowly, not sure if she was crossing a professional line but unable to ignore this sterling opportunity to ask some of the questions that had been plaguing her. “Whoever cut off the guy’s hands, it…well, it wasn’t when he wasalive, was it?” She almost didn’t want to hear Belly’s answer, just in case it wasn’t the reassurance she wanted, but it was worse not to know.

“Nope,” Belly said. “Don’t worry about that. Definitely postmortem.”

“That’s good. Not good about the cutting part, of course. That he wasn’t alive when… I mean, I’d rather not be feeling it if someone was going to chop off my hands, if I had to choose, although I probably wouldn’t get a choice in that situ…um. Right.”

Her babbling cut off at the heavy weight of one of Callum’s hands on her shoulder. Closing her mouth with a snap, she stared at her beer and started picking at the corner of the label.

“Much better to be dead if someone’s going to chop off your hands with a Sawzall,” Belly agreed.

Swallowing, Lou had to ask, “Is that how the murderer did it? With a Sawzall?”

“Yep. The head, too. Messy business. Didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. Guess we’re not looking for a surgeon or a butcher or even someone who hunts much.”

Making a conscious effort not to meet Callum’s gaze, Lou gently probed, “How old was this guy—the victim, I mean?”